


Relief: An Interlude

by Mina Lightstar (ukefied)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukefied/pseuds/Mina%20Lightstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has a headache.  Derek helps, in his own way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relief: An Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> For cottoncandy_bingo: "headache."

He's forty-five minutes into the research when he feels the headache coming on. It starts slow, a piercing throb right above his left eye. Stiles squints at his monitor, trying to minimize the discomfort. This only delays the inevitable; soon the throb is reverberating across his skull, down the back of his neck and back again.

Side effects, he sighs for the umpteenth time, really, really suck.

He shifts in his seat, trying to ignore the pain. The chair creaks in protest, breaking the utter silence of the room. Derek's sitting behind him — reading, napping, whatever — but after the noise, Stiles can feel the werewolf's gaze on him. 

Stiles tries closing his eyes. Maybe if he gives them a moment to collect themselves, the headache will go away. He lowers his head and gently massages both bones around his eyes with three fingers. One minute passes, then another, and it's apparent that no, this thing is not going to slink off without a fight.

"What's wrong?" Derek demands, all gruff and macho and werewolf-y. He's still staring, gaze boring into Stiles's back and decidedly _not_ helping relieve the tension.

Stiles grimaces to himself and hops up from the chair. Without bothering to answer, he heads to the bathroom to grab two Advil, downing them with tepid tap water. When he goes back to his room, he pointedly ignores Derek's glare. So the big bad wolf doesn't like being snubbed, so what?

But that's the migraine crankiness talking, so Stiles offers, "Got a headache."

"A _headache?_ " Derek parrots.

His tone makes Stiles bristle. "Shut up, they can get really bad." He closes his laptop and leans on his elbows, rubbing his forehead and counting the minutes before the Advil kicks in.

"Get 'em often?" Derek asks, sounding almost genuinely curious.

"Not too often," Stiles replies. Formulating answers kind of hurts, but the distraction is kind of nice, too. "But sometimes they're so bad, it _feels_ like I'm getting them often. It's just one of the possible side effects of being on Adderall," he finds himself babbling. I get them from time to time. Sometimes, your body just craps out on you, you know?" He barks a laugh. "Well, I guess maybe you wouldn't, really. Not the way — huh. Anyway." He squeezes his eyes shut against the persisting pain. Keeping his elbows on the desk, he presses the heels of his hands into his temples and massages, trying to rub the pain out.

After several long, arduous minutes, Derek grunts, "You're not putting enough effort into it."

Stiles pauses and blinks. "Excuse me?"

"You're doing it wrong," the werewolf criticizes, and Stiles hears him get up and walk over.

Reflexively, his hackles rise. Historic record has made it known that Derek Hale is not _gentle._ So it's entirely understandable for Stiles to assume that "doing it wrong" means "you aren't throwing yourself out the window fast enough." And if he tenses further, if he braces himself when Derek reaches for him — well, maybe he's expecting to be shoved into a wall or yanked across a table.

It's not like he's _paranoid._

"Here," Derek says, very matter-of-fact. He pulls Stiles upright by his shoulders and splays his fingers along the forefront of Stiles's scalp.

_You can't snap someone's neck with just your fingertips, can you?_ He doesn't get to voice this concern, because Derek starts rubbing the pads of his fingers into Stiles's hair.

Nothing compares to having someone else give you a scalp massage; this is just a fact of life. Even Derek's cold, calculated rhythm sends hot zings of pleasure down the back of Stiles's neck. After half a minute, he even stops expecting Derek to murder him. At the two-minute mark, when Derek's hands are working behind his ears, he hears himself hum appreciatively. The sound makes Derek pause. Stiles curses inwardly.

"So is this some ancient werewolf mojo thing you're doing?" he asks to cover the awkwardness. "Should I go research it after?"

Derek grunts and goes back to work. "Yeah, sure," he says, blandly. But his touch is softer now. It lingers, a rub that ends in a caress.

Stiles bites his lip to keep from laughing, because he just put _Derek_ and _caress_ in the same sentence. And then he bites his lip to keep from moaning, because Derek's stupidly talented fingers are finding knots in his neck that he didn't know existed.

The Advil hasn't kicked in yet, but the headache is long forgotten. Stiles lists forward, making it easier for Derek to reach the nape of his neck. He doesn't even flinch when the werewolf encircles his throat to better work his thumbs in.

"This feels …" he murmurs before he can help himself, and then inwardly kicks himself. It's too late, though, because he can feel the change in Derek. "… Awesome," he finishes lamely.

"Yeah?" Derek replies. His hands are resting on Stiles's shoulders now, hot through his t-shirt. Derek himself is a large, looming warmth and Stiles has to make a conscious effort not to lean back into him. Because that would just be — yeah, no. Too complicated. _Way_ too complicated.

Derek doesn't seem to think so. He curls over Stiles's sitting form, stubble grazing his neck, breath hot against his skin, one hand surreptitiously trying to pull his shirt aside and Stiles forces himself to break the spell.

"So my headache's gone," he announces very loudly. It isn't, not entirely, but they're not going to split hairs at this point. He sits up straighter and opens the laptop, a mood-killer if ever there was one. "Thanks a lot, your technique really worked."

Derek backs off, albeit slowly. Maybe he's feeling slighted — maybe he's confused, too. Stiles doesn't know, and doesn't turn around to find out. He takes a deep breath, trying to slow his beating heart while Derek marches back to the other chair, all the way against the far wall. Perfect.

His head still feels warm and fuzzy. He hopes that's from the massage and not … other stuff. He tries to concentrate on the webpage in front of him but it's even harder now. He can feel Derek's eyes on him, still watching his every move.

Stiles licks his lips.

 

~End.


End file.
